Reflections

“I didn’t know what shoes to wear today,” he said. “So I thought maybe I should wear these – my combat boots. These boots have never been laced up on U.S. soil before. They’ve known nothing but war and pain and just such awful things."

The senior English teacher, Mrs. Binkleman ruled with a firm hand but the soul of a poet. If there ever were a stereotype of an old-fashioned, traditional teacher – she was. She gave deadlines and enforced them. Set high standards and achieved them. Appeared to have no existence outside the schoolroom.

As it happens, the place was a dump. The room was painted a sickly Pepto Bismol pink. There were holes in the drywall. Three mismatched chairs circled a lopsided table. And the bathroom sported off-matching tile and plain concrete. Holes in the door were either of the peep or bullet variety, neither one very reassuring.

This group consisted of ladies who are mostly retired, between the ages of 60 and 80, but still have a sparkle in their eyes and a gleam in their hearts. They live comfortably, they have worked hard, and they have experienced a myriad of tragedies and joys. They are the culmination of life.

I recently joined a new gym. In order to join, I had to sign a two-year contract I can’t cancel, but they can and will increase my monthly membership fee after the first year. Doesn’t a contract mean that both parties are locked into something for a period of time? Heavens, no. It means that I, and I alone, am locked into a contract for a period of time.

The bats were brown furry metaphors, of course. But for what? Outside distractions? Random intrusions? Or perhaps they represented our own personal perceptions or fears or past experiences or imagined dangers – all those things that can come flitting out unexpectedly from our private places of darkness.

Our time here is made up of events, good, bad and “eh,” but a great deal of it remains locked inside our minds. Our experiences become a footprint, a trail, a eulogy or a sum total that registers the fact that we stood on this earth and that we mattered.

After being divorced 15 years, I gave up on finding Mr. Right for the second time. At that point, I thought married life would be about two old people living together. We’d lead slow, lethargic lives – eat dinner at 4 p.m., indulge in scavenger hunts to find our eyeglasses and fall asleep while waiting for the 11 o’clock news. I’d probably even lose my independence. Yuk!

Two knee and one hip replacement, along with severe back arthritis, had me leaning on a cane and, occasionally, a walker. I passed a mirror and was shocked to see my posture resembled Quasimodo’s. My head stretched two feet in front of me when I walked, like a periscope in search of land. Hopes of making it with George Clooney had long since vanished.